


Some Of Us Aren't So Lucky

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusco forgets something important, while Reese covers for his pet detective. (Sometime after “Bury the Lede” (2.05); POV Fusco and Reese</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Funny how things change on the other side of the big “D”…

There are all these big adjustments to make - like learning how to be a single again, making ends meet on less money, residing in a smaller space, cooking for one… Stuff that didn’t matter before suddenly becomes a lot more important.

And then there are the little changes. Like that image he uses as a background for his cell phone. It used to be a picture of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model; before that it was a news photo of the scoreboard from that awesome Knicks game he had attended with some buddies years before…

Now? It’s the latest school picture of his son. The child whose very existence HR has been using as a club to beat him into toeing their line. He stares at the phone. He doesn’t see the boy near as much as he’d like to. Probably his fault - just like the divorce.

After she dumped him, he’d resisted the inevitable, flapping back and forth, like a fish on a deck. Getting booted out of his own house was bad enough, but having to stand there helpless while that door was being slammed in his face, shutting him off from his kid...that was the real kick to the head! Then the court papers were served and it was more than just the closing of a door; it was the turning of a lock to which he no longer had a key, literally _and_ figuratively.

The stench of failure shouldn't still depress him, but it does…all the time.

But, he’s trying much harder these days to be a better dad, having missed the opportunity to be a good husband. Not that it makes much difference to his ex-wife; she still hates his guts. She’d always been fairly certain life is a colorful fashion show, whereas with the kind of experiences he brought home from the job? Only shades of gray make up his existence.

Well, cry me a river…so what else is new?

“Everything OK, Fusco?”

Oh, right. Wonder Boy is giving orders again. Something about sending him a photo of their latest charity case. He hopes Carter has been listening ‘cause he sure hasn’t…

“Yeah. Must be something I ate…” he replies, though not at all sure Reese is buying it. The guy is like a mind reader. Carter has a word for that but he can’t remember what it is. Omni…something. But whatever, the Suit always seems to know what’s going on, which rock to turn over on a hunt.

“When’s the last time you saw your pal Simmons?” Reese asks.

Simmons. The bastard who keeps threatening him. But given all that’s gone down with HR lately, it’s not something he’s willing to share. So he does something he didn’t think he’d ever have the guts to do.

He lies to Mr. Deadly…

“Ah…we haven’t talked since the last time I shot at him saving your ass!”

He hopes his poker face is in place and working. After all, how can he confess to this vigilante that he desperately wants out of that dirty cop club. That Simmons is using the carrot and stick approach, promising him in exchange for helping HR one more time, he’ll be free from their clutches.

_“Just do this one thing for us Lionel, and then if you want out, you’re out.”_

That’s the carrot. And the stick? If he doesn’t help them, Lee will be told all about his Dad’s dirty past. And so will his ex-wife. With the anger she still harbors for him, it would be good-bye visitation rights…he’d never see his boy again!

He’d never embraced the culture of that sewer pit organization, never really wanted to be part of it from the beginning. He’d hinted often enough, in fact, flat out told the ex-agent that he enjoyed being a good cop again. And in return for that confession? Wonder Boy destroyed the only evidence that could have let him be a hero for once!

Not only that, he was forced to cover up a murder, one he didn’t even commit - though to be fair, it _was_ done in the process of saving his ass. But it also forced him to sink even more deeply into that unholy quagmire of crooked cops. He’d had to ask HR for help in the cover-up, thereby giving away a piece of that integrity he’d worked so hard to nurture, to grow.

No, his current problem is not something he’ll admit to Mr. Happy. After all, the guy has always been deliberately orchestrating events so that he, Fusco, has to remain a dirty cop! Even Carter, knowing about his undercover status, can’t help him get out from under HR…make his past involvements go away. In that regard, he thinks, Simmons had it right.

_”Push comes to shove who’s got your back here? That Goodie Two Shoes partner of yours, or me? You need this to go away just as much as we do…”_

But there’s still this smidgen of guilt when Reese gives him an assignment to tail Simmons - and then adds, “If he gives you any trouble, I’ve got your back.”

Riiight…

The flip side of this guilt is of course anxiety, fear of what will happen if…when…the ex-agent finds out the truth: that he’s been helping Simmons erase some of HR’s dirty tracks. Not something on which he cares to speculate. But, the deed is done. The lie is out, the words spoken, and like a poisonous vapor drifting between them, never to be retrieved.

As vindication, Simmons words ring in his ears again and again: _“HR may be down Fusco, but we’re not out!”_  
So why does he still feel like a jerk…?

 

 

 

......

“Carter, is Fusco there? I haven’t been able to get hold of him all day!”

“Not here, John. He left early…I think I remember his ex was supposed to drop Lee off at his apartment. They were going to take in the game this evening,” she replies. “Is there a problem?”

“No. No, I just need to talk to him.”

“I’ll let him know if he checks in…”

Reese clicks off the connection and stares thoughtfully at the phone. Fusco had been increasingly avoiding his calls, an irritant that is starting to morph into worry. His pet detective, who despite all his blustering protestations is usually so eager to please, has become ever more distant over the last few weeks.

The ex-op had put it down to Fusco’s complaint over interference in his personal life - making a big issue over a demand for his backup while he was on a date. Hah. Like Fusco deserves to have a personal life…? The cop ought to know better by this time.

But that was several weeks ago. Surely the detective’s pity party is over by now. No, there is something else at work here - and he intends to find out what that something is. And the best place to start is with Fusco’s buddies. With a little schmoozing and liberal applications of beer he should be able to get them to spill information about the detective’s current activities. When alcohol goes in, secrets come out.

He heads downtown to the bar he knows is a favorite hangout for Precinct 8 personnel.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

“Look, I told you already! Those were the only pages I looked at. You think I had time to go through that whole ledger with all those bullets flying?”

Fusco had plied the same argument for the better part of an hour, but seemingly without success. They’d already been through several beers each and Simmons was still convinced the portly cop could have removed several more pages of evidence from the HR payoff ledger while it was in his possession. This despite the FBI suits and NYPD uni’s buzzing the place like bees around a hive, tying up the loose ends of a firefight that had erupted over said ledger.

He’d had only a few minutes before that written list of players was handed over to the FBI as evidence against the crooked cops, and only because desperation drove him did he comply with Simmons demand to remove several of those damming pages. Including the one that had his name on it…

And all for nothing, as he later found out.

 _“You’re off the hook”,_ he’d said. _“You and your boss. We done here…?”_ He’d handed over the loose sheets, and Simmons, the bastard that he is, had smirked!

_“Once you’re in, you’re never out.”_

Which brought him to this state, sitting in a bar surrounded by his colleagues and feeling very much alone now that Simmons had finally left. So he lets the conversation flow around him as he pours himself another beer from the communal pitcher. What is this? His fourth…or fifth? Or maybe his eighth. He’d lost count after Simmons finally left him in this darken corner with several of his buddies. Damn his dirty hide!

Members of the cop brotherhood attempt to engage him in increasingly drunken debates, but he either ignores them or just grunts his responses. After several beers, none of these conversations make any sense anyway. Well, life’s a bitch and then you die…

Staring into the mug and watching the foam gradually dissipate, he starts a list in his head. One he mentally labels in big letters, “Things I Like About My Life” …and the other “Things I Hate About My Life”.

List one, number one: cold beer…

 

......

The place is, as one would expect of a “cop bar”, full of law enforcement officers - some still in uniform, presumably not drinking, others in plain clothes. Under different circumstances he would simply saunter in as though he belonged, but recognizing as FBI types a couple of the men nursing drinks at the bar, he decides against his original plan.

Because what he also recognizes from his view through the plate glass window, is the hunched over frame of his pet detective. With a very large pitcher of beer in front of him.

Now that’s interesting. Wasn’t the cop supposed to be at the game with his son? Of course he’d also been given the assignment to follow Simmons…but surely Fusco wouldn’t have let that take priority over his son! Perhaps he cancelled the sleepover. Perhaps the ex-wife thought better of bringing the kid to Fusco’s shabby apartment...

Or perhaps the cop has gotten so drunk he’s forgotten about the boy and that commitment to the ball game!

At this point the need to grab the chubby detective and shake the truth out of him is overwhelming, but - as Finch is fond of saying - _“discretion is the better part of valor”…_ So he moves away from the window and after a moment of reflection heads to the nearest taxi stand. If Fusco’s son is in the apartment, and the ex-wife didn’t stick around, then the boy is alone in that building. Without protection.

He’s familiar with Fusco’s current living quarters. Not the best part of town, but then that’s all the cop can afford on a salary garnished for alimony and child support. But who’s to say the kid won’t start looking for his Dad at the precinct when Fusco doesn’t show up for game time!

And that would present whole other set of problems…

 

......

“Closing time! Everyone out, gentlemen!”

Fusco raises his head from the table, peers blurrily into the bottom of the beer mug. It’s empty. And so is that pitcher. He’d not even heard the ‘last call’…and now it’s too late for a refill. Bummer.

He’d been concentrating too much on his lists, most of which entries have already faded from his memory, pickled in alcohol as it is. But he does remember spending an inordinate amount of time trying to decide into which category to place his nemesis, switching the name back and forth between his lists several times.

No more beer. Well, then. Might as well go home…

Home. Crummy apartment, while she got the house. With the yard. And that fine Bar-B-Q pit… He’s thinking he misses that outdoor grill more than his ex-wife at this point. They always had a backyard cookout on the weekends to celebrate getting through another work week…assuming of course that he didn’t get called in. And then sometimes after they got through eating, he and Lee would take in a game and…

Game…! Oh, Jeez! Oh, Holy Mother of God!

What with Simmons and the beer, he’d forgotten all about Lee and tonight’s game! He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. He’d turned it off for his meeting with the HR rep, fearing one of the Dynamic Duo would try to contact him and he sure as hell didn’t want to fake it through _that_ call. But now he’s desperate for contact!

Wait. There’s a text message. From his ex. _“Am at symphy. cell off. Buddy at ur apt. Mke sure he’s in bed by 10.”_

Oh, Jeez…!

Fusco stumbles out of the booth, almost tripping over his own feet trying to fly out the door. No way can he drive in this condition, so he leaves the cruiser parked at the bar and flags down a cab, praying to every saint he can think of that his son was still there...still safe.

 

......

The drive to his apartment takes eons, but then suddenly he’s standing before his door, breathing deeply, completely sober now that fear, anxiety, and an adrenaline rush have wiped out any vestige of his former buzz. His son has a key, as does his ex, and he thinks briefly of knocking, fearful that he might scare the kid by just barging in this late.

But it’s hours after mid-night and by now Lee should be asleep anyway, so… He puts the key in the lock, turns it smoothly and quickly steps into the apartment.

The living room is empty…dark, though the TV is still on, providing an eerie flickering ambiance to the shabby space. He breaths out his relief as he makes his way to the small kitchenette, noting the door to the extra bedroom is closed. Since that door is usually kept open, his son must be in bed. All right. Good. He'll grab a water, then check on Lee. And simply offer his apologies tomorrow - maybe take the boy out for breakfast. Yeah, Lee would like that…

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

“You know Lionel, I’m going to have to slap a curfew on you if you can’t keep better track of time…”

“Yipe!” 

The exclamation is barely past his teeth before he has his Glock in hand, pointing it over the kitchen counter at the long dark silhouette that had evidently been occupying the couch. How did he miss that? He isn't drunk anymore...or at least he doesn’t think so. At the precise moment of that thought the TV program switches to a brighter scene, providing just enough light to reveal the identity of that lean body. 

_Oh, yeah. Of course._

“When you plan on using that, you need to react a lot faster,” the silhouette comments in that too familiar whispery voice. Reese sits up, turns on the nearby lamp and stretches leisurely. It goes through Fusco’s mind that Mr. Happy never seems to look rumpled, even after lying on a lumpy old couch. The man’s simply not human!

“You…! What are you…”

“…doing here? Your job apparently“, is the calm reply. “Now put that away like a good boy.”

Fusco absently mindedly stuffs the gun back into his holster. Then thinking better of it, takes it back out and shoves it into a kitchen drawer. By that time Reese has come around the counter and effectively cornered the cop against the stove and fridge. His nemesis is thin lipped and furious, a dangerous state Fusco has learned to recognize from the ultra calm tone of voice directed at him.

“This is unacceptable, Lionel. Your boy was all alone when I got here…and he was expecting you to take him to the game tonight.”

Fusco feels trapped, wants to put his hand on that broad chest and just shove the guy out of his space. But he’s seen Reese in action, has often admired the man’s moves and knows he’s no match for the lethally trained ex-agent. In hand to hand combat with this man, the best he can hope for is to stay alive.

Still, the very fact that this hired assassin, this…this killer…is in the same apartment with his son so terrifies him that without dwelling on the consequences he finds the courage to go on the offensive.

“What in the hell are you doing here! No one asked you to come over!” he sputters. “I don’t want you anywhere near my son, you understand? You stay away from him because so help me God, the next time I find you even within a mile of him, I’ll…”

“Dad…”?

 _Oh, hell._ And now Lee is awake, and he has to explain away this guy in the suit, what he’s doing here, and why the game date didn’t happen. And then his ex-wife will probably hear about it, because he’s not going to ask the boy to lie. And then…

Reese moves aside and Fusco’s thought processes come to a screeching halt as the boy passes the ex-op without so much of a glance and flings his arms around the surprised cop. Fusco automatically puts his arms around the small body and hugs back, noting that his son smells of soap and toothpaste and clean pj’s…and broken promises… 

He holds the boy tight, his mind desperately preparing a mea culpa speech. Where to start…?

“I’m so glad you’re safe!” Lee says, giving the portly cop another squeeze.

“Safe…?”

“Yeah. Detective Stills said you sent him here to stay with me while you had to go give some backup, and that’s why we couldn’t go to the game!”

“Backup…” He replies in a wooden tone, feeling like an idiot, parroting back the boy’s words. But he’s so dumbfounded he can’t help it.

“Yeah. Help catch those drug dealers shooting at the officers.” Lee pulls back and searches his face expectantly. “Did you get them? Detective Stills says it’s real dangerous sometimes when those guys are all crazy with drugs and then they start shooting everything in sight…”

Detective Stills…! The name sends chills down his spine, and he shoots daggers at Reese lounging against the counter. Lee doesn’t remember having met the real Stills years ago? Probably not…the boy was a lot younger and kids don’t pay much attention to their parent’s friends. But he remembers. He remembers Stills and his last conversation with the ex-agent concerning the crooked cop. 

_“Is that where he is? Witness protection?_  
_“No, Lionel. He’s in the trunk…”_

Wonder Boy’s face is a blank slate. If the use of that alias is a deliberate attempt to remind him how the taller man will always have the upper hand, it’s worked, even if the intent is not obvious in the ex-op’s expression. What is obvious though, is that his nemesis has saved the day - or rather last evening - for him…because whatever story Lee was told has salvaged his standing with his son. 

And while he hates to support this fantasy, he hates even more the thought of never seeing the boy again because of a stupid mistake in drinking too much! Lies have consequences, he thinks. But this is one he is willing to live with; he won’t risk losing his son. 

So he answers, “Yeah, we caught them. But how come you’re still up, Buddy?” …trying to normalize the situation, realizing he’s now willingly collaborating the ex-agent’s story. He reaches into the fridge with the notion of pulling out a couple of beers and offering one to the ex-op. That’d be a normal, natural thing to do now, right?

But beer – and Simmons – is what got him into this situation in the first place. So he switches to the freezer instead and grabs the only thing there other than ice cubes and a thick wall of neglected frost buildup. He offers Reese one of the chocolate popsicles he keeps in inventory for his son’s visits.

The ex-op raises an eyebrow but silently takes the peace offering.

“Oh, I was asleep, but I heard you talking. Detective Stills said I had to go to bed after that movie we watched…And boy, was it good! There was this machine, and one in Russia, and they take over all the missiles and bombs and try to be boss over the world! Lots of cool action, but kind of dumb too, you know? I mean, how can a machine start thinking like a person, huh, Dad?”

“Yeah, Buddy. It’s just a story. Now you need to get back to bed. The sun will be up before you know it!” He gives his son a one-armed hug and a quick pat on the back sends the boy out of the kitchen.  
“Good night again, Detective Stills!” Lee calls out, waving as he leaves for the bedroom.

Fusco turns to the ex-op. Wonder Boy still hasn’t said anything, is just standing there concentrating on licking the frozen concoction and looking for all the world like Lee when enjoying the same treat. The cop shakes his head at the incongruity of it all: a lethal assassin with a sweet tooth for chocolate. Who would have thought! But then you really can’t always judge a person by their personal likes and dislikes…

“You…uh…hungry? I’ve got some leftover pizza…” he starts, feeling like he needs to make amends or something.

“No. I’m good. Thanks for the popsicle,” is the reply, as the ex-op moves to the door. “And Lionel, you need to take better care of your family. Children are the anchors that hold you to life...so be thankful you have a son to love.” He glances toward Lee’s bedroom. “Some of us aren’t so lucky…”

Lionel silently watches the taller man leave. He’s never known much about ex-op’s past…has never had the inclination to ask. He knows only that the guy’s ex-military and Carter revealed once that Reese had worked for that creepy CIA Agent, Snow. 

So now he can add one more detail to his sparse knowledge about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly: the man doesn’t have any kids. But he wishes he did. 

It’s a strange world. He sighs, and he mentally switches Wonder Boy back to the list titled “Things I Like About My Life”… 

 

End


End file.
